Asking a shadow to dance…

Whatever you may think, or whatever others may tell you, being a classical music critic is an immensely tough gig – one that I have only taken the first few steps of an infinite journey in mastering. It presupposes a huge wealth of musical knowledge: repertoire; orchestration; history; theory; and, amongst a long list (that probably also has no conclusion), an empathy with – an understanding (and, hopefully, multi-dimensional experience) of what it means to stand in the varied shoes of – those who perform it. Should these people become your friends, then perhaps the hardest part is being critical (in the way most people would understand that word) in a less-than-positive – although desirably constructive – way.

I have touched before on some of these issues – and it may be worth your while to click on that link, before reading what follows… – but two tenets, above all, govern my attitude to such writing:

Cardus gave me two tips… One was: don’t write anything you wouldn’t say to someone’s face, and the second was: never write out of a bad mood. I’ve tried to stick to those principles.
– Michael Kennedy

I have assail’d her with musics…

I wrote recently that “It’s strange how life’s roads diverge… yet, sometimes, then cross, run in parallel, until they meet again at some glistening, memorable moment…” – and mentioned, amongst others, Martin Roscoe, Peter Maxwell Davies, and a “Yamaha CFX concert grand”.

Well, in some kind of parallel crystallization (although partly inspired by the above convergence), yesterday I took delivery of a Yamaha Clavinova CLP-525R – which includes “Complex sample sets, painstakingly borrowed from Yamaha’s flagship CFX concert grand…” – and from a retailer who (being based, then, just around the corner from my second childhood home of Blackburn Cathedral) also played a large part in my formative musical years. In fact, the copy of Farewell to Stromness I chose to baptize the piano with actually bears a Reidy’s price sticker on it… – as does, unsurprisingly, a great deal of the sheet music I own (apart from the seventy-year-old collections of Brahms, Bridge, Chopin, Mozart, etc. that I have inherited from my mum: a much better pianist than I).

As much as I would have liked to have claimed back the family Bechstein Model 10 upright from my son: firstly, my ears and hands are no longer worthy of such a wonderful instrument (and, more importantly, he is so much more musical than I, and can therefore give it the justice it deserves); and, secondly, we really don’t have the room! Additionally, with the Clavinova, I can pipe the sound directly to my hearing aids: which not only saves the rest of the household from the caterwauling of my (current) incredible rustiness; but enables me to hear its output more clearly. In fact – being able only to recall the aural and physical aspects of the Bechstein: so embedded, after thirty years of playing it (although I did borrow my sister’s Blüthner for a while, when my hearing originally started to fade, but I wasn’t quite willing to let go completely of my favourite pieces) – one of the astounding features of an electronic keyboard is the ability to adjust the feel and sonority to my own satisfaction (even on what is a relatively basic model)!

I was also surprised by how easily (yet inaccurately) technique came back to me, the first time I sat down and played: musical muscle memory is a great thing – as, of course, is my recently improved hearing. However, my hands appear to have shrunk – or, at least, their span – in the last few years: and Max’s awkward major ninth semiquaver (from middle B to C#) at bar 20 caused me no end of problems!

Practice, of course, should restore some of this flexibility – although the piano will, primarily, be an aid to relaxation: in much the way that listening is. I also hope, however, that such immersion will prompt a return to composition. We shall see.

For the moment, it is just wonderful to be able to riffle through my large collection of music, plonk it on the stand, and restore – however clumsily – relationships with once-familiar friends. A few Chopin mazurkas, later, I think! (And maybe a little Mompou, too…?)

Roll Over Beethoven…

Note: originally written for – and published on – The Cross-Eyed Pianist blog: 8 February 2016.

I inherited my musicianship and my love of music from my mum. Many of her first musical memories are religious – as are mine. Hers include pumping the bellows for the organist at the Methodist church in Yorkshire where my grandad was a lay-preacher. Mine, sitting astonished in the congregation of Blackburn Cathedral – then still a building site – waiting for my audition for the choir: wondering if this amazing noise was also what filled heaven. (I was never religious, in any sense: but the compositions and architecture inspired by all faiths will never cease to amaze and inspire me.) I was four.

Forty years later, I also inherited my mum’s deafness – although mine has been accelerated, and deepened, by other medical issues. After a lifetime of singing, playing, composing, conducting, listening… in some ways the loss of music was worse than the main disability which accompanied it. I felt bereft, and grieved for a very long time. Even the familiar works on my music server (which has over 20,000 tracks on it – ranging from plainchant to punk; serialism to soul) could not console me. For several years, music was something I accidentally bumped into; never actively sought out; and always came away from more disappointed than before.

When I obtained my first hearing aids (properly called hearing instruments), a very talented and patient audiologist spent an afternoon with me at home cycling through some of those many pieces, in many different genres, adjusting these little life-savers over and over again until one of their four programmes was specifically set up for listening to music. However, not all harmonies are born equal – there is a reason iPods come with so many equalizer settings, I discovered – and, eventually, I realized that I needed to know the music note for note (often helped by a score resting on my lap) for it to make ‘sense’ to me. It also helped if the composition was sparsely scored. (Thank goodness for chamber music – especially Bartók’s magnificent six string quartets – which I now have so many different recordings of, I have lost count!)

As my hearing rapidly worsened, the technology could not keep pace. Concerts were always painful – and listening to the piano (my own instrument) always sounded especially dissonant: the clash of harmonics confusing the processing of both my digital hearing aids and my analogue brain.

¶

However, I kept reading about improvements to hearing technology; and, as my first set of ‘instruments’ were no longer powerful enough, late last year I was granted a new pair. Initial technical and customer care problems rendered them almost useless. However, thanks to another thoughtful audiologist, I am now progressing well on my return to the musical world, with a much wider and deeper soundscape. (It takes a while to get the fine-tuning right with these things: but I feel that I am more than halfway back to the best the sound can be for me. And what we have achieved is already a massive leap forward.)

It is so long since I played (the family Bechstein upright now resides with my son: another keen musician – those genes are obviously dominant); composed (my Mac, with all my part-finished digital manuscripts, is in storage – along with multiple backups, of course); and I am no longer fit enough (physically or aurally) to conduct: so I simply assumed that any future I had with music would be passive – although immensely enjoyable – as a ‘mere’ listener.

¶

I had, though, started writing reviews of the plays I regularly attended at the RSC – aided enormously by the access provision there: including captioned performances. These were posted on my blog: which had initially been about life in my remote Warwickshire village, both scenic and politic; but which had expanded eclectically to cover more wider culture; as well as life from my slightly warped point of view. And, although I was writing mainly for myself, and happy just to be occupied in some sort of creative act, it really had not occurred to me at all that my previous experience as an amateur musician could similarly be applied.

However, ever since we moved to this area of the world, we have been on the mailing list of the inspirational Orchestra of the Swan (OOTS), also based in Stratford-upon-Avon. And, encouraged by my partner, over the last few months, I have attended quite a few of their concerts. This was an extremely tentative – and somewhat daunting – exercise, at first: but, as I have grown accustomed to my new instruments (which, at first, were bass-heavy and treble-light: my hearing loss has a large neurological component, which is not easily adjusted for), I felt compelled to write about my experience, dubbing it “this journey (nay, this pilgrimage) back to live music that I am on”. This was something I needed to do, it seemed – especially as it brought together the things I loved. And it was helped by the fact that OOTS is a small ensemble – as is Eboracum Baroque: who I accidentally discovered on my trek – both of whose sound is tremendously transparent.

Of course, as with the plays’ scripts, re-reading, re-learning the scores, has helped tremendously – although I have not yet had the temerity to experiment with referring to them during a concert: despite never meeting with resistance to this as a student; nor, nearly four years ago, when I followed The Dream of Gerontius – a work I know better than most; but at a time when my hearing had failed badly – on my iPad in the grand tier of Birmingham’s wondrous Symphony Hall. (In fact, many other enthusiastic Elgarians told me that it gave them the courage to try something similar: so I probably will return to this practice in the future – although I worry that it may detract from my usual somewhat immediate, emotional response.) Such familiarity also helps; and I am fortunate that, once absorbed, the musical notation often floats through my head whilst listening: bringing me improved clarity.

¶

As with the listening, though, so with the resultant writing. Much professional music – and drama – criticism leaves me cold; does not give me what I crave from not being there (basically, regret…); does not enlighten the mind nor accelerate the heart. But, as I was – I believed – writing for myself, I hesitantly attempted to rectify these faults by producing the sort of review I would like to read myself – not yet aware that there were those in the wider world who had similar feelings (principal amongst them, of course, this blog’s generous host, Frances).

I was therefore surprised by the reception: not just from other concert-goers – but from musicians (and others) who I admired. (Special mention must go here to David Curtis, artistic director of OOTS: who not only welcomed my different approach, but embraced it with his habitual enthusiasm; and who continues to encourage and help me re-immerse myself in this refreshed world of constant magic.)

After writing a very thorough (i.e. customarily lengthy, detailed and discursive) critique of one of David’s concerts with the (non-professional-but-most-awesome) Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra – not a small ensemble, at all: not for Brahms’ Second Piano Concerto (and with my hero, Peter Donohoe), and Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony… – I was still gobsmacked to find the number of hits on the review increasing almost before my eyes: rapidly gaining more viewings and feedback than any other post I had authored. It seemed that I had, unwittingly, serendipitously, hit some sort of target, some sort of nerve: fulfilling a similar need to my own, but, moreover, for many others.

This took a while to sink in – and, me being me, the only way I could deal with it was to write about it. I therefore penned an article on my motivations: what music criticism means to me; what I think it should be; but, principally, what drives me to write in the way I do – and why it is so different to what others (might) produce.

To be honest, I published it assuming I would be condemned (not that I truly minded) for my amateurishness; for treading on the toes of those more ‘qualified’ to produce such writings (although I do have a background in professional journalism – albeit covering technology…). But, again, the positive feedback opened my eyes: and I feel not only have I found some sort of vocation (and one that I enjoy); but that music – as it frequently does – has started to connect me with those who, with much more expertise and experience than me, too wish to promote it in their own inclusive, collegiate, enthusiastic way.

¶

This is only the beginning, though. Not only do I believe that there is a wider audience to be reached by writing with my own, peculiar brand of passion – as do others – additionally, I hope that my experience can encourage and help those who may have also ‘lost the music’ in their lives (for whatever reason) to try and find a way back in for themselves. Without making light of it, my deafness now helps me appreciate music so much more. I therefore hope that I have also inherited my mum’s longevity.

Learning to dance with the limp…

Someone said: grief is the presence of absence. This is very true.

– Madge

Many of these blog posts are sparked by chance encounters – with views (both picturesque and political); with people; places; other people’s words, deeds and thoughts…. It’s how, I believe, the very stuff of life is formed. (Although, much as I would like to – if only for the good “stuff”: especially a place where I wake up every day without pain… – I struggle to believe that everything that can happen to us is actually doing so in a parallel universe: somewhere, sometime.)

I couldn’t find an exact source for Madge’s pithy quote (tripped over at the end of a Guardian feature; and which coincided with the death of a musical mentor – that, at the time, on a day when I was already riled, felt like a stupefying, slow-motion, hard punch to the guts…). The nearest I found was this… – which, although I agree with much of it, I obviously disagree with what I see as its sugary, religious sentiments (especially the confidence in a future “presence” in heaven…).

Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak

Whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break.

– William Shakespeare: Macbeth

There have been many insightful words written and spoken about death – but I already know that mine won’t really contribute much to that assemblage. It’s just that “My bursting heart must find vent at my pen.” My immediate response, though – however instant and clumsy – did have a positive outcome, in that it reconnected me with another mentor (and once-and-now-again good friend): who I had not been in contact with for a very long time. As he replied (again immediately): “Old and highly-valued friendships need to be nurtured.”

And, of course, he was right: “Someday the rains will fall”. Who knows what future griefs may arrive just around the next corner? What regrets they might prompt for the delayed; the unspoken?

I struggle, though, with the concept of having regrets – knowing that, logically, one cannot go back (or travel to the relevant “parallel universe”) to undo, redo, or simply do, something. Emotionally, though, the blighters are impossible to escape: and I suppose their moral – to “Gather ye rosebuds” (not just for yourself – but especially for those around you…) – is one worth learning: even if it is similarly difficult to enact.

Ronald Frost: 1933 to 2015

Ronnie was a great musician; a great man; and always great fun to be around…. As I went on to be a church choirmaster, myself, for some short time, I know I owe a great deal to his generosity in sharing his formidable talent and knowledge, and great love of music.

     I remember turning the pages – and sharing a flask of very sweet coffee – with Ronnie, on the organ at King George’s Hall – probably during a performance of The Dream of Gerontius (a work he was a master of – also coaching the Hallé chorus to such great heights…) – and enjoying all his little asides! He was also responsible for many of my solo performances, before my voice broke and became intensely frog-like!

     My fondest memory of him, though, will always be him trying to teach his labrador, Sheba, to jump over a footstool – somehow, it sums up the light he brought to other people’s lives – always putting a cheeky grin on your face – and his…!

Rest in peace, Ronnie – or, perhaps more fittingly, surrounded by the beautiful music you enriched us all with.